Sadie O’Toole had screeched like a banshee, but in the end, she went because she knew she had no legal recourse. Nathaniel hadn’t seen or heard from the former madam since.
“Did you, now? Well, that’s one problem solved.” Gobberd gave him a nod of grudging respect. “But given the house’s location, I doubt you’ll attract any other tenants besides vagrant rats.”
“On the contrary, the House of Sirens’ rooms are all full,” Nate said.
Nearly full, he amended silently, remembering that Vesta’s chamber was now empty.
Then he went on to tell Gobberd how he’d become involved in Lady Georgette Yorkingham’s crusade to improve the lives of fallen women.
“Wouldn’t have figured you for a reformer, Colton. Don’t seem at all the type to go for that sort of meddling.” Gobberd gave him a slant-eyed squint. “What are you—some kind of secret Methodist?”
No, just a man who loves a meddlesome woman.
“Well, someone doesn’t seem pleased about the meddling,” Nathaniel admitted and told Gobberd about the murders of both Vesta and Mr. Bagley. “Who do you think stands to lose if the House of Sirens is closed down?”
“No one really. I expect Sadie O’Toole has already set up a seedy little shop in Whitechapel by now.”
The coffee came then and both men paused to drink.
“One thing to bear in mind,” Gobberd said, “is that the House of Sirens catered to…particular tastes.”
This was news. None of the girls who’d stayed on had been very forthcoming about their former life with Madam Sadie, except to express relief that it had ended. “Such as?”
“Multiple women at once. Flagellation. Boys, on occasion. Don’t know where she got ’em, the poor little blighters. Even…” Gobberd’s gaze flitted around the room, then settled back on Nate. “Well, I’d best not say, but you should know that rumor has it that it wasn’t unusual for whores to come up missing there.”
“Missing,” he repeated. “Did they run away?”
Gobberd shook his head. “Not likely. For the girls who landed at the House of Sirens, there was no place else to go that wouldn’t be worse.”
Was he hinting at more murders in the area that had gone unreported? “And nothing’s been done?”
“What’s to do? They’re just whores.” Gobberd shrugged. “Not that I know anything firsthand, you understand, but one hears rumors. It was another reason I was keen to unload the place. I keep a round little mistress in Cheapside, myself. She may not be the prettiest bint, but at least she’s reasonably clean. Limber, too. Do you know she can take her foot and put it—”
“Back to the subject at hand, if you please.” The last thing Nate wanted to hear about was Lord Gobberd’s odd exploits in the bedroom. “If the House of Sirens was a blight on a neighborhood that has pretty dim prospects to begin with, why would two murders come so quickly on the heels of it shutting down?”
“Men want what they want.” Gobberd spread his fleshy hands before him to accentuate his point. “But if Sadie’s is closed down, some of her clients with…unusual tastes might not be able to satisfy them in the usual way. Habits can be the very devil to break. And bad habits even worse.”
Nate’s gaze swept over the assembled gentlemen in the coffeehouse. Almost to a man, they were games-mad. If cards or dice weren’t available, they’d make up their own way to satisfy the urge to wager. They’d bet which raindrop would make it to the bottom of a windowpane first. They’d lay odds on whether a stray cat would head up or down the street. Anything to appease the need for that heady rush winning brings.
What would someone with even darker needs do if the place where they could be easily met was no longer available?
***
With every evidence of politeness, Georgette proffered her calling card to Mr. Duggins and asked that he deliver it to his mistress. Of course, the fresh loaf of quince bread she’d brought as a peace offering to the bully might have helped as well. And Reuben’s stalwart presence at her left shoulder undoubtedly improved the cordiality of her welcome.
The common room was cleaner than it had been last time Georgette was there. A girl with a pink ribbon holding back her long curls was playing a passable Mozart sonata on the upright pianoforte in the corner. The instrument was woefully out of tune, but the melody was still recognizable. A couple other girls, in various levels of dishabille but by no means indecently dressed for at-home wear, lounged on the red velvet couches.
Georgette was ushered into the madam’s private parlor on the second floor almost immediately. Gone was the blowsy harridan she remembered from their first encounter. Now the owner of the House of Pleasure was dressed in a dark tweed morning dress that was only a tad threadbare. Madam Bouchard poured tea from a silver service into a set of china cups that would have done credit to a Mayfair matron, but for a few chips here and there.
“I hope you’ll forgive the initial impression I made upon our first acquaintance. My only defense is that I had forgotten myself in the press of competition here on Lackaday Lane. I have remembered me now.”
Georgette blinked in surprise.
“I know your ladyship is not in the habit of calling on folk of my station,” Madam Bouchard said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“May I be frank?”
“Please.”
“I’m surprised by the change in your establishment,” Georgette said. And yourself, she thought but decided it would be impolite to admit.
The madam buried her nose in her teacup for a moment. “Well, for that I must credit you and Lord Nathaniel. You’ve made some real changes in the neighborhood.”
“And you’re not upset by those changes?”
“Heavens, no. Well, I will confess that I was upset about Vesta leaving at first, but if a woman’s heart isn’t in whoring, she’s not going to be much good at it in the long run, is she now?”
“That makes sense.” Georgette had expected to encounter a defensive, evasive woman instead of this polite one. If Madam Bouchard wasn’t angry about Vesta leaving her, she certainly wasn’t likely to have had her killed. “But you are still running a brothel, yes?”
“Oh, yes, but now that Sadie’s is gone, the clientele is much improved. We don’t have to sink to her level in order to compete now, you see.” Madam Bouchard gestured gracefully with her free hand and Georgette realized she must have been a real beauty in her day. “Better gentlemen. Better whores. Makes everyone happier.”
“And what if one of your girls wants to leave?”
“She’s free to walk right across the lane to the House of Sirens whenever she likes. I’ll help her pack.” Madam Bouchard offered a plate of mince biscuits, but Georgette declined with a shake of her head. “There are always more girls who’re willing to lift their skirts. Truth to tell, an establishment like mine benefits from a change in staff from time to time. Gentlemen do like variety.”
“But someone is unhappy about the changes around here,” Georgette said. “You’ve heard about Vesta’s death, I assume?”
The madam put her teacup down. “Aye, that’s bad business, is that.”
“You know everything that happens here on Lackaday Lane.” Georgette figured a little flattery couldn’t hurt, especially since it was likely the truth. “Who do you think did this terrible thing?”
The aging whore turned her lips inward for a moment. “Someone who couldn’t bear not to, I’d expect.”
Georgette blinked hard, not certain she’d heard her properly.
“I see I’ve shocked you. I’m about to do it a bit more, but I think it’s important that you understand,” Madam Bouchard said. “Sadie O’Toole had a few customers who needed to hurt people.”
Georgette’s belly roiled like a pan of jellied eels.
“Now since they don’t have a place where they can do so in peace, they may have decided to find ways to do it on the sly.” The madam cocked her head at Georgette, like a merlin eyeing the field mouse it intends for din
ner. “I can see you still don’t understand. Well, you likely wouldn’t, being yet a maiden.”
So, the fact that she was no longer a virgin wasn’t as readily apparent as she feared.
“I understand Vesta was strangled,” the madam said.
Georgette nodded.
“It is a little known fact that for some people, pleasure during the act of love is enhanced if they are deprived of breath,” the madam said. “They call themselves ‘gaspers,’ and while I don’t quite understand the allure myself, I can’t deny the practice exists.”
Georgette shook her head in disbelief. Evidently, one night with a rake did not mean her education into sensual things was exhaustive.
“But this was brutal. Violent. Vesta’s neck was broken as well. Her clothing was undisturbed so no one was…I mean, she wasn’t…”
“No one sent her off with a good hard swive, you’re saying,” the madam said. “That puts this in a different category then. Most gaspers want to be choked and they trust the one who’s doing the choking.”
“That’s not true in this case. I’ve been told it was fast. This was an assault. And that Vesta likely didn’t even see her attacker. There was nothing…consensual about it.”
“Well, consensual or not, there’s ways of pleasing and ways of taking pleasure. It takes all sorts, they do say.”
“Not that sort,” Georgette said, wishing desperately for a bath. She’d never felt so dirty. “No one should be allowed to hurt someone in order to pleasure themselves.”
“The line between pleasure and pain is sometimes very thin.” The madam smiled enigmatically. “You’ve never been paddled, have you? Wait until after you’ve had a good bum-warming and we’ll talk again.”
Twenty-five
Nathaniel trudged doggedly down Lackaday Lane after deciding he’d check on the House of Sirens. He could still feel the sizzle of Georgette’s irritation with him. She’d undoubtedly be stewing after being left behind all morning, but he was in no hurry to return to her.
In fact, he was ready to tell Lord Yorkingham that he was done being Georgette’s public escort and private nursemaid. There were only days till the grand ball when she’d slip from him forever. This little melodrama could only end one way—with the infuriating woman he loved deciding to accept the suit of a royal duke twice her age.
Nathaniel decided he didn’t want to stick around and watch the final act. If he couldn’t convince her to abandon her royal aspirations with a night of loving, there was no hope he could change her mind with anything else.
There was only one consolation. At least with a royal husband, Georgette would be so hemmed about with courtiers and guards, she’d be unlikely to get herself into any more dangerous adventures.
Well, actually, there’s another small consolation, he admitted to himself as he stepped around the trickle of yellow slime that ran down the middle of the lane.
Nathaniel had been Georgette’s first. In the years to come, even if her marriage to the Duke of Cambridge did warm beyond the state of cordial strangers, she’d still remember Nathaniel.
A woman didn’t forget the man to whom she’d given her maidenhead.
And he’d never forget her.
Lackaday Lane was even more quiet than usual. It was early enough for the streetwalkers to be abed yet. No window sashes were thrown back to reveal any young women waiting to tempt a customer to come to her love couch. The entire block seemed subdued after one of their own was found murdered.
A black wreath hung on the door to the House of Sirens. Nathaniel was pleased to discover the locksmith had already been there and he was unable to simply push his way in. His knock was answered promptly by a girl whose hair was soberly plaited and her gown demurely cut.
“Oh, my lord, we’re that glad to see you, I’m sure.” The girl gestured him in with nervous, birdlike movements. In her somber black dress, she looked more like a starling with clipped wings than a former prostitute. “Mrs. Throckmorten is in the back, supervising the dyeing. She says we’re to mourn Vesta for six weeks, good and proper, so them what didn’t have a black dress is boiling up one now. Mrs. T. will be wanting to thank ye proper for sending Mr. Hock round to replace Mr. Bagley so quick-like.”
Nate started through the narrow house after her. “Since Mr. Darling’s replacement has come, I assume he has already left for Yorkingham House.”
“Oh, no, sir,” she said. “The lady come by earlier and he left with her.”
“The lady? Lady Georgette, you mean?” he said through clenched teeth.
The girl dimpled prettily. “Yes, my lord. That’s the one.”
Even during the day, Lackaday Lane was not safe for one of Georgette’s station. Even setting aside the fact that two residents of this crooked little street had been murdered, it wasn’t unheard of for young women of good families to be abducted if they happened to wander into poorer quarters. Then they could be forcibly wed to fellows who merely wanted to get their hands on the lady’s wealth.
I will take her over my knee and paddle her bare arse, so help me God.
“Where did the lady and Mr. Darling go?” he asked.
“To Madam Bouchard’s.”
***
Once Georgette recovered from her initial shock over Madam Bouchard’s candor, she was fascinated by the woman’s considerable abilities as a storyteller. Apparently, she’d been a young courtesan in Paris during the days of Robespierre and the Reign of Terror.
“Of course, I couldn’t let my noble protector be taken,” Madam Bouchard continued with her story as she plied Georgette with a plate of light scones. “So I let le Comte de Ferre down the well in the garden. Poor man! He stood shivering in the bucket until I could talk the gendarmes back out the front door.”
“Weren’t you afraid?”
“Terrified,” the old woman admitted. “But fear only lets you know you are alive. And I was wondrously alive in those days.”
“However did you manage to distract them away from your lover’s hiding place?”
Madam Bouchard smiled slyly. “They were men, my lady. And men are very easily distracted if one knows what to use. I took them to my love couch, one after the other, and opened the liquor cabinet for those waiting their turn. Believe me, they all left with smiles on their faces.”
It was a scandalously wicked story, but against her expectations, Georgette found herself liking the madam very much for it. “What would have happened if le Comte had been found hiding in your well?”
“I expect we’d have gone to Madam Guillotine together,” she said blithely. “But I was young then. I thought I would live forever.” The aging whore’s expression turned sober. “And it seems sometimes that I have, but I certainly didn’t expect to grow so old while I was doing it.”
The conversation flagged then and Georgette rose from her seat. She put her bonnet back on. She hadn’t expected to stay quite so long at Madam Bouchard’s, especially since the proprietress of the House of Pleasure hadn’t been able to say with certainty who might have been responsible for Vesta’s death.
“I must be going now, but I thank you for your hospitality,” Georgette said, extending her hand to her hostess. “If you think of anything at all pertaining to Vesta’s death, please send me word.”
“Of course.” The madam took Georgette’s hand between hers. “Thank you for caring about what happened to Vesta, my lady. Not many would.”
“It is my duty to care.”
“No, it’s not,” Madam Bouchard said. “But I’m glad you feel it so.”
Georgette took her leave, making her way down the dim staircase without being too aware of her surroundings.
What an odd mix of light and dark we all are.
Madam Bouchard’s protector claimed noble blood, yet he hid like a craven coward while his low-born mistress faced down a death squad with nothing more than guile and a smile. She must have cared for the Comte deeply.
Georgette was born a lady, yet she’d lain down with
a man and spread her legs like any lightskirt on Lackaday Lane, because she couldn’t bear not to know what it was like to give herself willingly to someone for whom she cared deeply.
Cared deeply. There’s an understatement.
She didn’t just care for Nathaniel. She was connected to him somehow. When he laughed, her heart was full to bursting. When he frowned, her own chest ached. Even when he irritated her beyond bearing, she knew she’d rather be frustrated with him than spend time in desperate, dead calm with anyone else.
She hurt when he hurt. If he suffered a cut, she wouldn’t be surprised to find herself bleeding. Something in him called to something in her and she couldn’t help but answer.
I love him, Georgette realized between one step and the next.
It was the only explanation for her insanity.
She and the madam had much more in common than she would have guessed. The knowledge distracted her so fully, she was unable to pay much attention to anything else.
Which explained why she didn’t see her attacker waiting in the shadows at the bottom of the stairs. She wasn’t even aware of his presence until the burlap bag closed over her head.
***
“Now that there’s less competition on Lackaday Lane, we only see the gents we wants to,” one of Mercy’s friends told her while Mercy took tea with the girls in the little kitchen at the rear of the House of Pleasure.
“And don’t none of ’em bring out the paddles no more,” another said. “Unless it’s for us to paddle them.”
“Sounds like things have changed for the better here, then,” Mercy said as she sipped her tea and nibbled on a ginger biscuit.
“Want to come back, Mercy? There’s plenty o’ fellows who still ask about ye.”
“No, I’ve gotten used to having a bed to myself.” She was happy for the change in situation for her friends, but returning to the House of Pleasure would feel like going backward for her.
Besides, if she were no longer at Yorkingham House, it would make it difficult to ignore Reuben Darling so completely. And she was enjoying that far too much to consider other arrangements.
Connie Mason & Mia Marlowe - [Royal Rakes 02] Page 18
